


Lemon and Strawberry

by kilodalton



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilodalton/pseuds/kilodalton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lemon and strawberry, yellow and pink, they go together just like gelato and a hot summer’s day</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lemon and Strawberry

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: shameless Nine/Rose fluff for my lovely friend the-untempered-prism who is as sweet as strawberries =)
> 
> Betababes: the equally sweet as strawberries fadewithfury and whoinwhoville =)

The piazza is crowded.

And bloody _hot_.

Even the stucco buildings bake under the unrelenting scorch of the August sun, their façades parched from the arid Sicilian air and starting to flake off, more reminiscent of overcooked croissants than heavy paint. He and Rose are among the myriad souls out and about despite the oppressive heat—and he gets more than a few stares from shoppers out on their errands. He doesn’t pay them any mind, of course, instead rolling his eyes inwardly at the ape tendency to stare at things they don’t understand. He knows what they’re likely wondering—how on earth can he stand to be wearing a black leather jacket on a day like today?

His Rose doesn’t seem fazed, though—and she knows the answer he’d give if anyone asked him about it: Superior Time Lord Physiology.

And it’s the truth—his physiology _is_ superior, it’s just the weather that happens to be broiling. He would be much more uncomfortable if he were human… like Rose. At that thought, he glances at her, not quite _concerned_ about her, not yet—it’s not hot enough to be dangerous for her… he just wants to make sure she’s tolerating the heat, that’s all.

She strolls beside him, her hand loosely entwined with his, and _she’s_ dressed for the weather—although the surreptitious glances she’s getting from some of the male passersby have nothing to do with her attire, he notes begrudgingly. He tries not to stare at her and fails—then tries to hold back a smile and fails worse. To him she’s a vision, an oasis in a pastel sundress that matches the clay of the buildings and the dusty brick of the walkway under their feet. The sun glints through her hair, shining off her bronzing skin, glistening warmly like copper as a bead of sweat begins to form on her forehead.

She reaches a hand up to gather her golden locks, twisting them into a rope-like chignon, and threading her fingers through the hair on back of her head to keep the makeshift bun in place. Domestic as it sounds, he wishes he had a hair tie, or even a rubber band to help her. He inconspicuously digs a hand into his pocket to check, but finds nothing suitable, of course. It’s not surprising—he’s never had call for something like that himself, and never would have carried something like that around for his companions in previous regenerations. He somehow doubts a transwaveform modifier complete with a remote self-destruct button would do the trick.

A cluster of damp strands clings stubbornly to the back of her neck, but she doesn’t seem to notice, and his fingers twitch, instinctively wanting to assist her. He has a better view of her back—erm, neck—than she does, after all. He could help secure the rebellious locks, coast the pads of his fingers along the nape of her neck—the cool touch from his lower body temperature would likely even give her some relief from the heat.

Catching his gaze, she shines a smile at him, and he at her. As she looks away, his own gaze falters, dropping back towards their feet—his heavy Doc Martins, her light sandals—as they continue their saunter through the piazza.

They pass a fountain. Its centuries-old marble base gleams white like the frothy water its spigots launch high in the air before it tumbles down into the pool in a wide arc. The bottom is littered with coins glaring back up through the water in the noonday sun, and Rose squints, blinking rapidly against the brightness. Children splash noisily in the water, drenching each other in some sort of game, water dripping down their coffee-colored hair and onto their toffee-tanned skin. The kids launch the water even further than the fountain’s spigots do, and a wave comes spurting out in their direction, landing on the brick of the piazza only a metre from their feet.

He knows Rose well enough to know that she probably finds their misbehavior at least slightly annoying—but even so, instead of backing away, she raises her hand up like a visor over her eyes and moves closer.

No sooner has she taken a step towards the water than a breeze stirs the air, dancing down the curved tiles of the mission roofing, and she smiles. With a sigh, her eyes drift closed as the fountain’s spray shifts slightly in the breeze, covering her skin with a dewy mist.

If he thought she looked beautiful (for a human, of course) a minute ago, that has nothing on how lovely she looks now.

“Ahhh that feels perfect. But I’m guessing I shouldn’t jump in, yeah?”

“Think you’re a bit too old to get away with that,” he says.

Arms crossed in a faux-stern expression, he eyes her up and down, averting his gaze as the gentle breeze picks up, stirring the hem of her sundress around her tanned legs. The fabric is thinly woven linen, pale against her skin, and getting it wet would be—

“Too bad,” she says.

He gives a short nod, and his gaze falls across the piazza.

“If the heat’s too much for you, there’s a gelato stand nearby—“

“Oooh, _gelato_!” she says with a smile as she spins towards him, her golden hair and sundress creating a little breeze of their own as she turns to face him, her smile as bright as the sun that burns fiery hot above them. “Gelato in Italy—that sounds lovely!”

He nods in agreement, happy she’s pleased—happier still that he thought of a way to help her cool off on a day like today. Arm in arm, they cross the piazza towards the stand.

“You’ll find it tastes different here than back in London,” he says, filling the hot, stuffy silence with what he knows best—words and facts and impressive details. “Italy regulates how it’s made—unless you buy an industrial mix and use a stainless steel tray, of course. The density is less because there’s less water, the volume is less because there’s less air allowed, and it doesn’t come as fully frozen or with the higher fat content of non-Italian manufacturers who make their recipes for longer-term storage—“

“Seems less magical when you put it that way.”

He stops short, almost offended, raising his eyebrows as he catches her gaze.

“Magical? _Here_? I’ve taken you to the bioluminescent underwater gardens of Mataraxia, and the glowing Arachnocampa luminosa caves of New Zealand—”

He trails off as an affectionate smile spreads across her face, and he can’t help but stare at her. Not for the first time, he wonders what on earth he’s done to earn a grin like that. Not that he’s complaining, mind. She hugs his arm closer to her, nestling into it despite the heat and the fact that the rays of the sun have surely made the black leather on his coat sizzling hot against her skin.

“And now you’re taking me to an authentic gelato stand on a hot summer day, and I’m very grateful.”

He’d have a wry comeback to that except they’ve already arrived at the gelato stand—a large, wide metal cart attached to an impossibly small bicycle. An enormous red-and-white striped umbrella shields the stand from the harsh glare of the sun, and Rose ducks under its protection, sighing happily at both the shade and the small bit of cool air escaping from the freezer and wafting up towards them. He ducks inside after her, and it’s the one time today he’s felt ridiculous—the bright thin nylon umbrella is so low that he has to hunch down to stand underneath, and even so, it still rustles obnoxiously against the top of his head.

“Here’s your magical Italian gelato, Rose,” he says. He gives her as much of a sidelong glance as he can muster in this position, his expression dry as the air around them, and his tone matter-of-fact. She doesn’t return his look but elbows him in the ribs and smiles up at the man behind the gelato stand, who smiles broadly back at her.

A little too broadly, in fact.

“Ah—your name is Rose?” the man says, and Rose nods. She smiles at him in the way she smiles at everyone, as if he were an old friend.

“ _Una Rosa dolce_ ,” the man says with a wink at her, enunciating every syllable. The Doctor glances away, rolling his eyes at the man’s ham-handed flattery. “Would you like a gelato then, _Rosa mia_?”

Rose bites her lip and looks uncertainly at the menu—the flavors are pretty standard as far as gelato goes, and the TARDIS translates them into English for her—lemon, strawberry, peach, espresso, ricotta, and another flavor known as _bacio_ that the Doctor is happy to see translated into hazelnut/chocolate instead of the more literal translation of “kiss.”

Coming from _this_ bloke, the Doctor has a feeling he knows what a sample of that particular flavor would entail.

“Hmm… any suggestions?” she asks of no one in particular, her cherry-red lips pursed as she stares intently at the menu.

“Pick whatever flavor you’d like, Rose—they’re usually all good. Generally they’re all sweet,” the Doctor says.

The man’s head pops up and he shoots the Doctor a reproachful look, his eyes narrow and disapproving.

“Usually? My gelato is always good. Always. And always sweet.”

“Sure,” the Doctor says with a long nod. The man’s eyes narrow, the sarcasm not lost on him.

“You—not so sweet.”

Rose raises her eyebrows and looks from one man to the other, shaking her head with a soft laugh. “I’ll have—”

“—strawberry.” the man says, looking back at her with a smile, and his word is a statement, not a question.

“…strawberry,” Rose finishes just a beat after the man, grinning at him and cocking her head to the side in curiosity. “How did you know I was gonna pick that one?”

The man shrugs. “You are sweet—like I said, _una rosa dolce_. It goes without saying you would pick the sweetest flavor,” he says simply, bending down into his cart.

It takes him much longer than necessary to put a simple scoop of gelato into a cone, and when he finally stands upright and hands the cone to Rose with a flourish she gasps. In fact, her expression lights up with a delight that the Doctor hadn’t seen since Mataraxia.

Curious, the Doctor’s eyes fall to her frozen treat… and irritating though the man might be, the Doctor has to admit that the rose the man has carved into the gelato is impressive. Not as impressive as the incandescent sea creatures on Mataraxia, mind, but not bad.

Rose gapes at the creation as she reaches for it, turning it around in her hands and examining it as if it were a work of art. “Blimey, that’s—that’s beautiful!”

 _For a streetside gelato cart_ , the Doctor wants to add, but keeps the thought to himself.

“I will make as many _rosas_ for you as you want.”

“Just the one will be fine, ta,” the Doctor says with a pointed gaze. The man’s smile drops as he looks the Doctor up and down, appraising him.

“Give him one too, won’t you?” Rose asks, nodding her head towards the Doctor.

“No that’s fine Rose, I don’t need—”

“ _La Rosa dolce_ wants two _rosas_ , she will have two _rosas_ ,” the man says, leaning back down inside the cart.

“Oi! You didn’t ask me what flavor,” the Doctor says. Truly, this man’s attitude is incredible.

“I don’t need to ask,” comes the muffled reply. “It is obvious. _La Rosa dolce_ gets a sweet flavor, while you get—”

He stands up handing the Doctor a bright yellow cone, the rose carving of his gelato matching Rose’s own cone, as Rose bites her lip in an unsuccessful attempt to hold back her laughter.

“Lemon,” the Doctor says dryly.

“ _Grazie_ ,” Rose says, a giggle bubbling out over the word. She drops some change into the man’s hand—including a far bigger gratuity than the Doctor would have under the circumstances—and nudges him again with her elbow, turning back towards the piazza.

Side by side, they slowly make their way back across the piazza, taking a seat on a low wall under an awning for some shade. A bit of shade at least—Rose’s legs are still exposed to the hard glare of the sun, her skin pink in a way that he knows will lead to sunburn if she stays out in it much longer. He’s sitting in the sun too, though… well, he doesn’t much care about himself. Rose, on the other hand…

Pulling out his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor aims it at the awning’s metal bracket, and it rolls out all the way, further cloaking them against the sun.

“ _Grazie_ to you, too,” she says with a playful smile, elbowing him once again.

“Don’t start.”

She laughs and brings the rose-shaped gelato up towards her lips, her tongue darting past her lips as she nibbles at the edge of an icy petal. “Mmmm, this is glorious.”

He flicks his eyes away from her, looking down at his own flower, and takes a bite. Not bad.

They sit side-by-side in companionable silence, eating their treats. After a few bites, the Doctor’s taste buds pick up a subtle shift in the flavor of his gelato. Underneath the tangy flavor of the lemon there’s something sweet on his tongue, something that still tastes like gelato but which is decidedly not lemony. Looking down at his lemon-yellow rose, he sees a dollop of pink gelato nestled in the middle, having been hidden beneath the lemon exterior. Curious, he brings the gelato back up to his lips, tasting it appreciatively.

“There’s a bit of strawberry in here,” he says.

“Really?” she says, and without warning she leans forward, taking a bite of his cone. She lets the flavor sit on her tongue for a moment, then raises her eyebrows and shoots him a grin. “That must mean you’re sweet then.”

“Sweet?” he says, the disbelief in his voice scraping across on every letter, dragging out the word.

“Yeah.”

“ _Sweet?_ ” he repeats, his eyebrows furrowed, and she laughs.

“Why’s that so hard to believe?” she says, turning around towards him, and her tone is genuinely curious. Her tongue darts out of her mouth to lick some gelato that is dripping down her cone, and he forces his perplexed eyes back up to her own.

“Rose… I’ve been called the Oncoming Storm, the Bringer of Darkness, I was President of the High Council of the Time Lords, Keeper of the Legacy of Rassilon, Defender of the Laws of Time and Protector of Gallifrey—I am _not_ sweet.”

“You’re passionate about saving the universe, I’ll give you that. But the ice cream doesn’t lie, mister,” she says, leaning forward and taking another bite of his cone. “Deep down inside you’re as sweet as they come.”

“So you’re telling me that funny little man is an ice cream savant?”

“Mmm,” she says, nodding. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“Quite the alien expert you are, then.”

“I like to think so.”

“Which means that deep down inside you are—what exactly?” he says as he leans over, seeing something yellow peeking out of the center of her pink gelato. Two can play at this game, and fair is fair. Taking a bite of her cone, he rolls the flavor around on his tongue, trying to find the appropriate word. “Tart?”

His grin is wide and self-satisfied—he’s proud of himself and the witty jab at her expense. The innuendo of his comment doesn’t register until her voice drops low and husky.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Doctor?”

It only takes six words—just six—and he’s blushing to the tips of his ears, and her lips quirk… blimey, superior Time Lord physiology or not, he knows even the tips of his ears are strawberry pink.

She laughs, leaning forward and nuzzling into the arm of his coat.

“Funny how they’re both pink and yellow, though, don’t you reckon?” she says, bringing her own cone up to his, tapping them together as if they were wine glasses at a toast. “They match.”

He glances over at her, at the bright smile on her face, and can’t help but grin back, a soft laugh escaping from him. His gaze flickers back over to the gelato stand, but the gelato man is busy, mid-banter with another couple who stand in front of the cart, hands entwined just as he and Rose had just minutes before. Turning back towards Rose, the Doctor smiles, and he can’t help but stare at her a moment longer. “Yeah. They go well together.”

“The best,” she whispers with a smile, and takes another bite of his cone.


End file.
